Chapter 4: Pancakes, Promises, and Pain

I woke from a nightmare, the faint scent of cedar in the air.

My sheets were twisted. My heart was racing. Just a dream, I told myself.

Our housekeeper knocked and said, “Today’s your brother’s birthday, Miss Lila. Are you getting up?”

She stood in the doorway, concern etched on her face. I nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I’m up.”

My voice was steady, but my hands shook as I pushed back the covers. Today felt different—important, somehow.

Right after the Winter Formal came my brother’s birthday.

It was tradition—one party flowed into the next, the whole town caught up in the celebration. I’d always looked forward to it, but this year, my mind was elsewhere.

Every year, I’d get up early, dress up, and bring a gift to his place to celebrate.

I’d pick out the perfect card, wrap the present myself, and make sure to wear something my brother liked. It was our little ritual, a way to stay close even as we grew older.

He’d host a small family brunch, gathering a few close friends.

The kitchen would fill with laughter and the smell of bacon, everyone squeezing around the table, trading stories and inside jokes. It was the kind of morning that made you forget all your worries—at least for a little while.

This year, I’d sent the gifts over early, but I planned to visit Shane’s house myself.

My heart beat faster at the thought. It was a small gesture, but it felt huge—a step toward something new.

Because today was also Shane’s birthday.

I wondered if anyone else even knew. It felt like a secret, one I wanted to treasure.

In my previous life, it wasn’t until our third year of marriage that I learned his birthday was the same day as my brother’s.

The memory stung—a reminder of how little I’d bothered to learn about him. This time, I wouldn’t make the same mistake.

I remembered that day—snow was falling heavily, and my brother’s friends came early to say he was sick, had no appetite, and especially missed the birthday pancakes I made. He sent a housekeeper to ask for my recipe.

I thought it was odd, but I went along with it. I’d always been good in the kitchen, and making pancakes was a small way to show I cared.

Though I was confused, I patiently taught her, thinking she’d need time to practice, and since it was my brother’s birthday, I made a stack myself and had the guys bring it over.

I watched them leave, arms full of food, and hoped it would cheer my brother up. I never thought twice about who else might be hungry that day.

That afternoon, Shane unexpectedly came into my room.

He rarely sought me out, so his sudden appearance startled me. He stood in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes darker than usual.

I was practicing calligraphy—yeah, I liked old-school stuff—when I saw his cheeks were flushed and he reeked of whiskey. I frowned—he was already frail, and now he was drinking in the middle of winter? Did he want to get sick?

The smell was sharp, almost medicinal. I set my pen aside, concern warring with irritation. He looked miserable, and I couldn’t help but worry.

Shane saw my frown, his eyes full of gloom. Suddenly, he grabbed my wrist. “Lila, I want birthday pancakes too.”

His grip was gentle, but desperate. The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. It was the first time he’d ever asked me for anything.

He was always so aloof; it was rare to see him so stubborn.

I stared at him, unsure what to say. He looked so vulnerable, so unlike the Shane I thought I knew.

I looked at him in confusion. He stared at me for a long time, then slowly let go, stepping back with a self-mocking laugh. “I’m drunk. Just ignore me.”

His laughter was hollow, empty. He turned away, shoulders slumped, and disappeared down the hall.

With that, he stumbled out.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with my guilt.

The next day, I heard he’d fallen ill again and called for the doctor in the middle of the night.

The house was quiet, everyone tiptoeing around the sickroom. I paced the halls, worrying, wishing I’d done more.

I went to check on him. He was sleeping, but restlessly.

His face was pale, hair damp with sweat. He tossed and turned, caught in some fever dream.

I reached out to feel his forehead, but he suddenly grabbed my wrist, holding tight.

His grip was stronger than I expected, fingers digging into my skin. I froze, afraid to move.

He frowned, as if talking in his sleep. I listened closely—he was saying, “Lila… don’t go.”

The words were muffled, but unmistakable. My heart broke a little, hearing him call for me even in his dreams.

I was at a loss, so I called his housekeeper over and asked, “What happened? Why did Shane drink so much yesterday?”

The housekeeper looked uncomfortable, shuffling his feet. I waited, hoping for answers.

The housekeeper lowered his head and was silent for a long time before saying, “Shane told me not to say, but yesterday was his birthday.”

The truth hit me like a punch. I felt sick with guilt, realizing how blind I’d been.

My heart jolted, and suddenly everything made sense.

All the pieces fell into place—the longing in his eyes, the bitterness in his voice. I’d missed it all, too wrapped up in my own problems to see his pain.

He’d been raised in a small house on the edge of town. Never valued. And with his birthday on the same day as my brother’s, no one ever celebrated it for him.

I pictured him as a little boy, sitting alone at a kitchen table, waiting for someone to remember. The image haunted me.

On his birthday, I’d personally made pancakes for my brother.

The memory stung. I’d baked and laughed and celebrated, never realizing what I was missing.

A wave of guilt washed over me.

It was overwhelming, suffocating. I wanted to go back and do it all over again, to give him the birthday he deserved.

In those three years, he never mistreated me—in many ways, he was even considerate.

He’d gone out of his way to make my life easier, even when I ignored him. I saw it now, every small kindness I’d overlooked.

But because he always avoided me, always so distant, I’d often overlooked his kindness.

He was a master at hiding his feelings, never letting anyone get too close. I wondered how much pain he’d carried alone.

Still, I did feel grateful to him.

It wasn’t love—not yet—but it was something. A spark of understanding, a glimmer of hope.

Shane didn’t wake up until the third day. I helped him sip some water and brought out the plate of pancakes I’d kept warm. “Your birthday’s already passed this year, but from now on, I’ll always remember it.”

His eyes softened, just a little, as he took the plate from me. It was a small moment, but it meant everything.

That was the last birthday we ever spent together. Not long after, he was shot—to save me…

The memory was sharp, painful. I blinked back tears, vowing not to waste this second chance.